Revolution: Book Three of the Secret World Chronicle

by Mercedes Lackey

  “It’s difficult, Mr. Tesla,” Pride offered, the apology in his warm tone and genuine smile. No wonder Spin Doctor held him up as a constant example of the face of Echo while Verdigris tried to turn the campus into his personal playground. Ramona watched him incline his head to Tesla and slip effortlessly into one of the two chairs in the room. “You’re something of a legend, and for my part, I certainly would not want to disappoint a legend.”

  The words made Ramona smile, yet the blue wireframe tsked in an oddly paternal manner. “You of all people should be able to communicate with legends, Yankee Pride. In fact, speaking with you is an honor, as you are the living legacy of Echo.”

  Pride didn’t have an answer to that; in fact, Ramona realized, the words made him somewhat uncomfortable. His smile lessened and his chin lifted a bit higher, but he maintained his congenial rolling drawl. “Thank you, Mr. Tesla. The matter at hand concerns Dominic Verdigris and his takeover of Echo.”

  The blue bust of Nicola Tesla gave a snort that reeked of disdain. “As I have said before, I do not care for this man.”

  “That makes three of us.” Ramona pulled up the other chair and shifted against the unforgiving wood seat. “He’s weeding out people in Echo and doing systematic searches of the campus. I’m pretty sure we’ll hear about a full-out merger with Blacksnake any day now, and I’ll tell you right now, it wouldn’t surprise me to go in tomorrow morning and have a pink slip taped to my door.”

  Pride nodded in agreement as Tesla’s blue brow furrowed in front of them. “The buyout is particularly troubling. I was unaware that so much had changed, especially considering the charter. You have Alex’s records of that meeting, I presume?”

  Ramona and Pride shared a look of confusion, and Pride spoke first. “Which meeting would that be, sir?”

  The blue wireframe gave a faint scowl, lips thin as he glanced away. “It would have been sizeable. Every member of the organization, as individual shareholders of Echo, would have had to turn over their shares. Signatures, notaries, all of the red tape and bureaucracy that allowed for such a provision in the first place. If none of this took place, then it would stand to reason that with enough shareholders . . .”

  “We could kick him out.” Ramona breathed the words, fingertips against her lower lip as she stared at Tesla. “With enough people, we could kick him out.”

  “Theoretically, yes.”

  Yankee Pride frowned. “Theoretically? How did this go from being a sure way to remove a slimy waste of skin and bones to just a possibility? Surely there are enough people in Echo, especially if you look at the retired members of the organization.”

  The corner of Tesla’s mouth turned down in an expression of disgust. “There are, but such a meeting would require a copy of the original charter. As you may have guessed, I do not have one. My current state of being is quite lacking in pockets.”

  Ramona gave a weak laugh at the joke, but Yankee Pride leaned forward to study Tesla more closely. “This charter. Who would have had an original copy?”

  “Hmm?” The blue wireframe tilted its head to the side. “Well, the original board members. The founding metahumans of the organization. Certainly, your parents have copies of the charter?”

  Yankee Pride shook his head slowly and leaned back, passing a hand over his forehead. Ramona hadn’t noticed it until now, but Pride had at least ten years on her. In uniform and on the field, he covered it with a cheerful smile and professional demeanor. In this dingy back closet in the CCCP headquarters, he looked like just another guy who needed a beer after a long day’s work. He let out a long sigh, not looking at Tesla while he spoke.

  “When Dad passed on, most of his things went to the museums. The paperwork that he had, anything that wasn’t classified, it all went to Eastham Foundation of Metahuman History. What they didn’t use went to the National Archives.” He slid forward, elbows on his knees. “If I’d thought about it more carefully, I’d have kept more of it here.”

  “That is unfortunate.” Tesla began to say something else, but he glanced back quickly as a small shuffling came from somewhere beneath him. “We shall discuss this more. Perhaps Enrico will have some ideas. A pleasure, as always.” He gave a final terse nod and faded into nothing above the desk.

  Ramona let out a long breath, suddenly exhausted. “Well, that’s something,” she offered hopefully. “At least we know where to start, right?”

  Pride didn’t answer; instead, he stood and pushed his chair to the wall. “If you’ll excuse me, Detective, I should be getting home. Searching through the records of the Eastham Foundation may take several days, and it’s not something I want to attempt without sleep.”

  Something had touched a nerve during the conversation with Tesla. Ramona moved her chair next to the wall and leaned against the door. She studied the floor as she spoke, trying to be as delicate as possible. “Sir, with all due respect, did I miss something back there? You seemed upset.”

  He ignored her question with a polite smile, ball cap back on his head as he tipped the brim down ever so slightly. “Have a good evening, Detective. We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

  * * *

  The Eastham Foundation’s main building at 435 West Avenue had suffered a moderate amount of damage during the early waves of the invasion. Memorials for recently fallen heroes filled that part of the campus, with the broken concrete wall bearing a tidy engraving of names, Echo-issue and civilian, along with dates of service to the organization. Inside, the exhibits devoted to specific heroes as well as innovations attributed to Echo had a steady stream of visitors. Yankee Pride stood back from the crowd as the teenager next to him snapped a few pictures with an elaborate camera phone.

  “Quite the exhibit, hmm?” The assistant director for the museum came up to Pride, a kind smile on his face. “We’re in the early planning for Mr. Tesla’s memorial. Considering everything that he did for Echo as well as the city of Atlanta, it only seems fitting.”

  Pride nodded quietly, his hands in his pockets. He had purposely worn civilian attire, khaki pants and a neat blue oxford buttoned at the sleeves. “A unique man, certainly. I enjoyed working for him.”

  The man frowned, not recognizing Yankee Pride out of uniform. “You work at Echo? Security?”

  The lack of recognition brought a broad smile to Pride’s face. “Something like that. I’m here doing a bit of research.”

  “Ah, wonderful! How can I be of assistance?” He motioned to the wall where a large touchscreen showed the Echo insignia over a silhouette of the Atlanta skyline. “Perhaps you’d like to start with our database?”

  Pride followed him to the flat panel display and watched as the young man pulled up several images he remembered seeing in one of his mother’s albums. “That’s not necessary. You wouldn’t happen to have a scan of the original Echo charter, would you?”

  The assistant director shook his head sadly and motioned to the open area of crumbling concrete visible through the picture window. “Sadly, our original was destroyed in the first wave. We didn’t consider scanning the documents until afterward, but we do train volunteers to assist with the backlog. At our current pace, I expect that we’ll be caught up by the end of the year.”

  “Of course.” Pride did his best to hide his disappointment by taking a renewed interest in the images on the touchscreen. “How does this work? Do you have them sorted alphabetically, by year, or . . .”

  “You can search for any Echo metahuman by name, civilian name, ability, year of entry, year of retirement, or year of death.” He tapped the screen twice; the chiseled image of Yankee Doodle appeared on the screen in telltale red, white, and blue. The press had likened him to the late Spencer Tracy, with an easy smile that could carry sympathy as well as triumph. Next to Tesla, Yankee Doodle had provided the image of the Echo Everyman, a public-relations dream that carried the organization from its early years through the turbulence of the post-war world. At every turn, he exuded charm and confidence. When he had finally
retired from Echo, he and Dixie Belle had moved to a sleepy suburb of Atlanta to live out their days in peaceful philanthropy.

  There were images of the funeral, ten years ago. Pride stood next to his mother, stoic as nearly all of Atlanta came to pay their respects to the man who bore the moniker of the North but grew to love the South as much as they embraced him. He had been larger than life, the figurehead of Echo as well as the entire metahuman movement during World War II.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” The words brought Pride back to the present with a snap. “Would you like to see another one?” Without waiting for a reply, the young man flipped to a picture of a willowy blonde wearing a modified one-piece outfit reminiscent of a sailor’s pinup girl. She stood in the classic pose of Rosie the Riveter, the glow around one hand as bright as the neat white smile she wore. Underneath the picture, the words “Dixie Belle” appeared in jaunty red script. “This is another one of my favorites.”

  Pride glowered at the image. “It’s historically incorrect,” he growled. “That is not Dixie Belle.”

  The man chuckled delightedly. “True, but it’s a great picture. Amazing how people could accept mutations and fantastical abilities, but at the end of the day, all of Echo’s darlings had to be . . .” He stopped himself and coughed. “Sorry.”

  “Where’s the real picture?” Pride folded his arms across his chest. “The historically accurate one.”

  It took a few fumbles through the database, but a grainy image appeared on the screen. The real Dixie Belle was escorted from a small plane, flanked by two pilots attributed as members of the Tuskegee Airmen. Off to one side, Yankee Doodle stood tall, the military salute crisp and directed toward Dixie Belle. Pride allowed himself a small smile. “You got any more like that?”

  The assistant director lingered over the picture, still flustered. “Not as many as we should. Prior to the establishment of the Eastham Foundation, Mrs. Davis had the largest private collection of metahuman memorabilia. She donated some things following the death of Yankee Doodle, but . . .”

  Pride paused, glancing over his shoulder at the pile of concrete that had held the Echo charter. “Was that charter hers?”

  “Oh, no. That belonged to Gordon Weddell. Did you know he donated his entire Echo pension to the foundation of the Weddell Endowment for Metahuman Education in . . .” The young man continued his short history lesson, but Pride’s mind was already racing. If the place only had one charter, then it was entirely likely that a copy of the original Echo charter wasn’t more than an afternoon away.

  Pride grinned and patted the young man on the shoulder a little more enthusiastically than he’d planned. “That’s excellent news. What’s your name, young man?”

  He recovered from the wallop to his back with an uncertain smile. “Michaels, sir.”

  “Well, it’s been a pleasure, Mr. Michaels. Thank you again for the tour, and thank you for your service to Echo.”

  * * *

  Ramona accompanied Pride and Jamaican Blaze on their trip to the outskirts of Atlanta to pay a visit to Mrs. Louisa Mae Davis, better known to the rest of Echo as Dixie Belle. While the other two acted as if it was any other trip to visit family, Ramona was acutely aware that this was a singularly rare opportunity to meet a piece of Echo’s history. This wasn’t talking to a consciousness via some advanced desktop device, she realized, as they pulled into the parking lot. This was real.

  Jamaican Blaze wore a simple white sundress and kept a small lighter in her hand. Pride walked next to her, neat and pressed in a simple dress shirt and khaki pants. Ramona had kept to her standard Echo uniform and kept a few steps behind them. The conversation was one-sided, mostly due to Blaze being mute and her particular brand of telepathy. Every so often, Pride would pause and the flame would flicker in Blaze’s hand, presumably to continue the conversation.

  “All I’m saying is that you don’t need to be concerned about working with any members of the CCCP. Especially the older ones.” Pride stopped while the lighter opened and shut, a smirk on Blaze’s face. “Well, okay,” he conceded. “Perhaps everyone but Pavel.”

  The three stopped at the front desk and gave their names, but the nurse simply smiled and waved Blaze through along with the other two. She led them through a common area and outside through a tree-covered walkway, then stopped in front of one of the ground floor condominiums. She knocked once, waited a few seconds, then knocked again. A cheerful “One moment!” came from inside, followed by footsteps and the clicking of a few locks. Ramona couldn’t help but hold her breath as the door opened and she came face to face with the living legacy of Echo.

  “Well, well. Look who’s here to pay a visit.” Bright eyes crinkled at the corners as she opened her arms and waved Blaze toward her. “You come and give your Gram a hug.”

  The woman who had worn the moniker of Dixie Belle for over seventy years still stood tall as she gathered her granddaughter close and pressed her cheek against Blaze’s forehead. “I am so proud of you, Willa Jean. I saw that footage . . . what did I tell you? Don’t question what’s been given to you, you just work what you have and it’ll all work out in the end.” She kissed the top of her head before letting her go and turning to Yankee Pride.

  “And you. It’s not a Sunday, Benjamin. It’s not my birthday, and it’s not a holiday.” The words were warm and without judgment, but she spoke them with a hint of sadness. “But I’ve seen the news, and I’ve heard the gossip. You’re here on business.”

  To Ramona’s surprise, Yankee Pride ducked his head and mumbled a “Yes, ma’am,” every inch of him waiting for some type of backlash. “It’s not a bad sort of business, Mom. I mean, it’s not urgent.”

  Dixie Belle didn’t appear convinced of this. She looked past her son to focus on Ramona, who responded with a nervous smile and a proffered hand. “Detective Ferrari, ma’am. It’s an honor.”

  The older woman waved it off like a compliment on a well-worn pair of shoes. “If it’s not business, then I don’t want to hear any bit of ‘detective’ around here, Miss Ramona Ferrari.” She followed with a wink. “I know who you are, young lady. Now, let’s get out of this doorway before someone gets suspicious.”

  In a few minutes’ time, they sat around a small table in the apartment’s modest kitchen. Pride bustled about, making coffee and boiling water for tea. His mother patted Blaze’s hand as she talked. “You really shouldn’t be so surprised, Ramona. Just because we leave Echo doesn’t mean that we stop paying attention to what goes on. In fact,” she leaned forward, the whisper loud enough for Pride to hear, “without all of that promotional nonsense, we have the time to really watch what’s going on.”

  Ramona nodded in thanks as Pride slid a blue ceramic mug in front of her. “And? What do you think about what’s going on so far?”

  Dixie Belle snorted, taking her own cup of tea in one hand. “In the kindest terms, dear? Bullshit.”

  Ramona choked on her coffee. Vickie, ever present as Overwatch, chuckled in her ear. Pride let out a soft groan. “Momma, please.”

  “I said that it was the kindest term,” she reminded him, then looked to Blaze. “I did say that, baby girl, didn’t I?” Blaze nodded in agreement, grinning silently at Pride. “Well, then. To be more specific, that slimy egomaniac with a receding hairline has his designs on more than just Echo. Mark my words, I’m certain of it. I know that Alex Tesla didn’t die the way that the papers said that he did, and I know that it’s not just coincidence that those rats over at Blacksnake are now trying to be all friendly.”

  “You know about Blacksnake?” Ramona frowned over at Pride. While she hadn’t considered it before, the number of retired metahumans around Atlanta made the assisted living complexes and retirement communities a prime target. She made a mental note to speak with Vickie about comprehensive background checks for the support staff. “What do you think of them?”

  To Ramona’s surprise, Dixie Belle didn’t respond with the same immediate harshness as she did to Echo and V
erdigris. “Now that there, that’s a little more complicated. I know plenty of folk who came out of retirement to go and work with them, because they didn’t like the way that Echo limited them. They wanted the money or the risk, or both. It’s not a choice I’d make, but that’s it.”

  “They didn’t come after you, did they?” Pride slid into the chair next to Ramona, his brow furrowed. “They haven’t been back here to bother you, after—”

  Dixie Belle shook her head and laughed, squeezing Blaze’s hand. “No, no. They tried to talk to Willa Jean, but she’s too smart for that nonsense. Burned the eyebrows off of a fool smoking menthols on my front step. That’s why she’s my favorite grandbaby.”

  “Your only grandbaby,” Pride corrected, smiling over the edge of his coffee cup.

  His mother conceded. “Well, you and your sister had different priorities. As long as you’re happy, that’s all that mattered.”

  Ramona smiled at the conversation, sipping her coffee. Three generations of heroes, and the talk was as warm and simple as any other family. Dixie Belle caught her grin and the corner of her own mouth twisted up. “Something funny, Miss Ramona? Good to see you happy . . . you keeping up with that handsome beau of yours?”

  “Wow, she’s good,” Vickie murmured.

  Again, she choked on a mouthful of coffee. Ramona shot an accusing look to Pride, who put a hand up in the air. “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know she knew half the people in the organization.”

  Dixie Belle waggled a finger in their direction. “I didn’t. I did my research. Just because I look like a relic doesn’t mean I don’t know about all of those newfangled technologies. Body might be old, but the mind’s still going strong.”

  Pride nodded again slowly. “So, then. What would you do in our situation, Momma? I mean, we have a plan, but . . .”

  “But you’re concerned,” she finished. “You’re just like your father, rest his soul. So, I’ll tell you what I told him. You trust what’s in here.” Dixie Belle pointed at her chest, fingers resting against the soft blue fabric of her blouse. “Don’t ignore what’s in your head, but you trust how you feel. You surround yourself with the right people, you stick to your decisions, and you own those decisions, good and bad.”